You, that in soft and am'rous sheets do lay,
Shining with love of everburning flames,
Resting between two arms as bright as day,
Kissing the womb which even Venus shames,
You, from the mountain high of wordly pleasure
Where you delight yourself, look down at me:
Come see my misery, see to what measure
Has grown my pain, from which I won't be free.
Come, see if you can resist the rotting flesh
That falls from my deserted, tortured heart;
Your eyes do not avert, as my grieves thresh
My bones out of my carcass, torn apart.
Don't pity me, for I'm not worth of love,
Nor will I ever glimpse what you now prove.
